


Crazy Little Thing Called Love

by dementorsatemysoup



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Zombie Apocalypse, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Derogatory Language, Drifter Daryl, Implied/Referenced Past Child Abuse, M/M, Merle Is An Asshole, Minor Violence, Post-Divorce, Slow Burn Daryl Dixon/Rick Grimes, Some Humor, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-03 23:23:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2891924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dementorsatemysoup/pseuds/dementorsatemysoup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rick thought getting divorced would be the biggest problem he'd face all year until he meets Daryl; a crossbow toting drifter with a racist brother and a messed up past.  Rick's year is about to get real interesting;</p><p>(AKA the au where I throw Rickyl into a romantic comedy because why the hell not)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Remember Everything

**Author's Note:**

> This is rated T for now, but the rating could change later.
> 
> This was supposed to be about vampires, but then my brain went 'fuck that. fuck that right in the ear.' So, yeah. I apparently am not allowed to harm these characters more than is absolutely necessary. Oh well. Enjoy the AU.
> 
> Thanks for reading!!
> 
> Ugh, I don't even like Rickyl AUs all that much (I can't get through them), but here's where my life has led me. I am so sorry Mom!!
> 
> Also, Lambert and Diane are not OCs. They were mentioned (or in Lambert's case in) the first episode (for those who don't remember them). I think Lambert may have also been in the webisodes, but don't quote me on that. (Actually, none of the minor characters in here will be OCs... I never like my OCs anyway)

It feels a little like signing his own death certificate, writing his name at the bottom of the page. He'd been with Lori since he'd been sixteen, married her at nineteen, and actually thought they'd be together forever, but he'd been naive. It's not that he blames her exactly, they'd gotten married too young, probably should have waited until they had both matured a bit before jumping feet first into spending the rest of their lives together. Granted, in his own defense, he doubted Lori actually thought about what would have happened if Rick had walked in on her and Shane.

He puts his pen down, rubbing the back of his neck. He wishes he could erase the last few months, especially for Carl's sake. The kid's barely ten and he already has had to deal with so much, and, really, this divorce can't be good for him. Neither is watching his parents try and fix a marriage that has been broken for years, but it still hurts Rick, having to see his son go through this whole ordeal. That says a lot about his marriage; being more upset about Carl having to go through the divorce than himself, but Rick doesn't want to admit anything yet.

He picks up the papers, placing them in the manila envelope they came in, and opens a desk drawer. He drops the envelope on top of a stack of empty file folders, closes the drawer, and gets to his feet. He picks up his empty coffee mug, carrying it into the kitchenette in his tiny apartment, and places it in the sink, leaving it sitting with three dirty plates, a partially clean bowl, and a handful of silverware.

He walks into the bathroom, flicking on the light, and looks at himself in the mirror. He hasn't shaved in a few days, dark stubble invading his face and leaving behind the start of a scraggly beard. He has dark, purple circles under his eyes, his job and this divorce the source of his many sleepless nights, and he's going to need a haircut soon. He's a mess, he knows this, but he also knows there's a light at the end of the tunnel. Rick looks away from his reflection, grabbing his toothbrush from the plastic cup sitting on the sink, and starts getting ready for the day.

He's in his car fifteen minutes later, heading towards the police station, and the radio has decided to be his enemy today, the DJ announcing, " _Another hour of the best love songs. Here on K103."_ Rick scoffs, turning the radio off, and drives the rest of the way in silence.

He pulls into the station's parking lot, parking his car next to Shane's Range Rover. He hasn't talked to his old partner since he walked in on Shane and Lori, but Rick's not exactly sure what the proper etiquette is for his best friend sleeping with his wife. Does he wait a year to talk to him? Does he wait longer? Do they duke it out in the middle of the street until they're out of breath and bleeding? He's never had to deal with this before, so Rick opts to not say anything until he figures out what he wants to do about it.

He shuts his car off, but he doesn't immediately get out. A part of him wants to drive away. Far, far away, until he's escaped this town; these people; his past. Until he's somewhere where no one knows him, where he can start over and pretend his life isn't a complete mess. If it wasn't for Carl, he probably would have done it a long time ago, but he's not going to abandon his son. He'd never do that to his boy.

With a resigned sigh, he pulls the keys from the ignition and opens his door. It feels like an eternity, the walk up to the station's entrance, but it's probably only a minute or two. He stops at the door, takes a steadying breath, and pulls it open. He steps inside, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it on one of the hooks by the door. He spots the sheriff's jacket, along with Lambert's, but Shane's isn't there. He must be on a call or something, and Rick can't help the relief he feels; it's one less encounter between them.

"Hi Rick," Diane greets him as he walks past her desk, looking up from whatever she's working on.

"Hey Diane," he responds, nodding at her. Her long, red hair is tied back in a messy ponytail, and her jacket is hanging off her chair, proof that she'd been running a little late this morning. "Charlie still giving you trouble?"

"The books never told me that the terrible two's can continue on into the three's and four's," she replies with a harried expression, rubbing at her eyes. "I need a vat of coffee or a week's worth of sleep." She offers him a weak smile and returns her attention to her computer, a clear dismissal, and RIck takes his leave, crossing the room to his desk. He sinks into his chair, puts his gun in the bottom drawer, and boots up his computer. He leans back, rubbing his forehead, studying the photos on his desk.

Three of them are Carl's school pictures, one's from the vacation they took two years ago to Disney, and the last is a family photo they had taken a year after Carl had been born. They look happy in the last one, him and Lori; happy and young and stupid. He reaches out and puts that photo face down, leaning forward to type his password into the computer.

"Hey," Lambert peeks his head over the partitions separating his desk from Rick's, "what's a nine letter word for acting without thinking?"

"Uh, impetuous?" Rick replies knocking his knuckles against his desk.

"Thanks." Lambert sits back down, adding the word to his crossword puzzle. Rick knows, for a fact, that the other man usually fills up two or three books per week; not a lot of big crimes happen in their small town.

He hears the door open, looking up to see Shane coming around the corner, talking softly to Leon. Rick immediately averts his eyes, pretends to straighten the files on his desk, waits until they pass by his desk before looking up, his eyes meeting Lambert's. He gives Rick a sympathetic smile and asks, "You wanna get drinks after work?"

It's not like Rick has a family to get back to, but he still says, "Let me think about it."

"Alright." Lambert's good people.

* * *

They get the call around noon; shots fired at the trailer park outside of town. Lambert and Rick take a squad car and drive out there. Rick has this sinking suspicion that it has something to do with Gary Taylor and his daughter's boyfriend Paul. It's common knowledge around town that Gary hates Paul and would like nothing more than to see him dead. Rick hopes he doesn't have to arrest the man, but if he did, in fact, murder Patty's boyfriend then that's exactly what he'd have to do. And if Paul did something to Patty...

Rick parks the squad car down a little ways from the trailer (which, much to his relief, turns out _not_ to be Patty and Paul's place), turning it off, and he and Lambert share a quick look before getting out. They head towards the trailer, both keeping loose grips on their guns. Rick gestures towards the back, and Lambert nods, splitting off from the other man. Slowly, Rick heads towards the front door, his hand still resting on the butt of his gun. He reaches out, gently knocking on the door.

He hears a clatter, and for a moment he actually thinks whoever is inside is going to make a run for it, but instead the door flies open and a crossbow is suddenly shoved in his face. He immediately removes his gun, pointing it at a snarling, blue eyed man, and calmly says, "Put down your weapon."

"Who the fuck are you?" the guy demands keeping his bow trained on the cop.

"I said put it down," Rick repeats slowly, ignoring the man's question, thumbing the safety off.

The guy glares for a moment longer, but finally he lowers the weapon. He peeks out the door, turning his attention back to Rick a few seconds later, and says, "I thought you was my brother."

"You always point weapons at your brother," Rick asks putting his gun back in his holster. The guy shrugs, wincing slightly. "You alright?"

"Fine," he grunts crossing his arms. "Who are you?"

"I'm Deputy Rick Grimes."

"Rick Grimes?" the guy makes a face, clearly insulted by Rick's name.  _Alright then._

"Yeah." The cop nods, letting his eyes scan the immediate area. "Someone called in a complaint about shots being fired. They gave this address."

Anxiety flickers across the guy's face, but he still shakes his head and says, "I didn't hear nothing." He gestures vaguely behind Rick and adds, "Must've been someone else."

The cop glances over his shoulder, furrowing his eyebrows, and then looks back at the guy. He studies him for a moment, taking in his hunched shoulders, almost like he's trying to protect himself, and the way he seems to be favoring his right side. He gives the guy a worried look and asks, "You sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine," he retorts through clenched teeth. "You need anything else, _Rick Grimes_?"

Rick hesitates for a moment before shaking his head. "No, but if ya hear anything..." he pulls a business card from his wallet, handing it over to the man. "Give me a call, alright."

"Whatever," the guy replies, studying the card. He scoffs, shoving it in his back pocket, and goes to shut the door.

"Wait." The guy stops, giving Rick an impatient look. "What's your name? Just in case you call."

The man pauses for a beat before mumbling, "Daryl Dixon." He slams the door, and the cop shakes his head, stepping off the stoop.

He meets Lambert back at the car, the other man leaning against the passenger door. He looks up when he hears Rick's footsteps, shrugging his shoulders. "Nobody came outside."

"I didn't expect them to," Rick answers settling against the car, his shoulder resting against Lam's. "Something went down, though."

"Yeah." Lambert nods towards the trailer and asks, "Think one of us should keep an eye on this place?"

"Maybe." He doesn't exactly have proof something happened, other than a complaint about shots being fired, and it's not exactly the first time someone heard a gunshot in this part of town, but he has this feeling that something else is going on; something worryingly big. "We'll talk to the sheriff, see what he thinks."

"Alright." Lambert pushes away from the car, heading around it to the driver side. "You wanna stop for lunch on the way back?"

Rick is still staring at the trailer, so he doesn't quite catch what Lam said. "What?" he turns to his partner, giving him a curious look.

"I said, do you wanna stop for lunch? We kinda missed lunch by taking this call."

He looks back at the trailer one more time before nodding. He tosses the keys to the other man and gets into the car. "Sure."

"Okay." When both cops are back in the vehicle, Lambert starts it and drives down the dirt road. As they pass Daryl's trailer, Rick is certain he sees the man peeking out of the window. He gives him a two-fingered wave, but he doesn't receive one in return, the curtains falling back into place instead. As the trailer park gets smaller and smaller, a gut feeling tells Rick that this isn't the last he'll see of Daryl Dixon.


	2. Boulevard of Broken Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh, I didn't realize how much I missed writing angsty stuff until after I finished this chapter. I need to start balancing my fluff with my angst.
> 
> Anyway, thank you to everyone who commented, kudo'd, and/or bookmarked last chapter. I wasn't sure what type of response this story would get, seeing as it's an AU and all, so I am glad you're enjoying this so far.
> 
> So, thanks for reading, I don't own these characters, and drop me a comment if you get the chance.

The door slams shut, pulling Daryl from a light sleep. He sits up, running a hand through his tangled hair, blearily watching as Merle digs through their fridge. His brother is muttering to himself, pulling random things from the shelves and dropping them onto the floor, obviously searching for something. Daryl clears his throat and asks, "What are you lookin' for?" Merle ignores him, tossing a few more things onto the floor. A ketchup bottle explodes on impact, red splattering the floor, the wall, and the cabinets, and Daryl gets to his feet. He slowly moves towards his brother, watching him warily. "Merle, what are you lookin' for?"

"Why is there a cop parked outside?" Merle asks keeping his back to the younger man. His words are a little slurred, a sure sign that he's either drunk or high, and from the fresh track marks Daryl can clearly see on Merle's arm, it's most likely the latter.

"It's what happens when ya shoot the TV," Daryl states crossing his arms, wincing when the movement pulls on his bruised ribs. "Someone called the cops."

"Probably that bitch next door." Merle slams the fridge door, knocking a few magnets off it, letting out a frustrated sigh. "Fucking cunt!" He runs his hands down his face, scratching his cheek. "You didn't tell him anything, did ya?" Merle turns to face his brother, a dark, dangerous look clouding his face. "He ain't gonna kick down our door and arrest me is he?"

"I told him I didn't hear nothing. 'sides, you didn't hurt no one. Why's it matter?" Daryl shrugs his shoulders, pulling his arms tighter against his chest.

Merle huffs, shaking his head. Daryl doesn't see the blow coming until his brother's hand connects with the side of his head, leaving his ears rings. His head snaps to the right, his eyes watering in pain, his hands falling limply to his sides. Merle jabs him in the chest with his index finger and hisses, "You know why, little brother. Got enough shit in this place to put us both in prison for years." Daryl sniffs, refusing to look at his brother. "Oh, what's the matter, Darlina? Are you gonna cry like a pussy?"

"Fuck you, Merle." Daryl shoves his brother into the counter, storming towards the door, yanking his leather jacket off the back of a kitchen chair.

"You walk out that door don't come back," Merle snarls after him, but Daryl ignores the older man. His brother has been making the same threat since Daryl's been sixteen, and he never remembers it in the morning. So, he's safe to assume he'll still have a place to live when he does eventually come back; if he comes back.

He slams the door behind him, kicking the side of the trailer, and stomps down the stoop steps. He shrugs his jacket on, pulling his cigarettes from his pocket, shaking out the last one, crushing the pack in his fist. He throws the garbage onto the ground, putting the cigarette between his lips, and uses his BIC to light it. He inhales a lungful of smoke, blowing it out through his nose, slowly pacing back and forth. It doesn't take him long to spot the cop car, sitting a couple trailers down from theirs, but he can't see who is sitting behind the wheel. Daryl has a feeling it's that Rick Grimes guy from earlier. He seemed too meddlesome for his own good.

He sucks in another lungful of nicotine laced smoke, running his free hand through his hair. Merle's been in a pissy mood for the past week, ever since his dealer got pinched. His stash is running low, and until tonight he hadn't had heroin in nearly three days. Daryl's not sure when his brother is most volatile: when he's high or going through withdrawal. It's time like these he wishes he still got high, but he gave that shit up after he wrapped his truck around a tree while tweaked out on some cheap shit Merle scored from some Mexican. 

His ribs twinge a bit, and he fights the urge to wrap his arm around his torso. He's pretty sure his ribs aren't broken, having dealt with enough broken bones to know the difference, but they still hurt like a bitch. He took some Tylenol earlier, but that didn't do jack shit. Sometimes he wishes he could find the strength to put a bullet between his brother's eyes.

In a fit of anger, Daryl kicks the trash can, knocking it to the ground. He yanks the cigarette out of his mouth, flicking it into the darkness, exhaling the last bit of smoke. He shoves his hands into his pockets, walking away from the trailer. He has his head down, eyes on the ground, so he hears more than sees the car approach him, easily keeping pace with his steady footsteps.

"You alright?" Rick Grimes calls from the open window. Daryl ignores him, speeding up just a little bit, but the cop has no problem keeping up. "If your brother is hurting you..."

"You don't know shit," Daryl snaps coming to an abrupt halt, fixing Rick with a dark glare. "My family has fuck all to do with you!"

Rick puts the car into park, giving Daryl a concerned, yet wary, look, and calmly says, "I wasn't trying to interfere, but as a cop I can't..."

"Read my lips, Grimes," Daryl ducks down so the cop can see him, enunciating his next few words, "leave it the fuck alone." He shoves away from the squad car, walking away. He doesn't have time for some bleeding heart cop getting into his business.

It'd be safer for everyone involved if Rick Grimes stayed as far away from the Dixons as possible.

* * *

Rick watches Dary walk away, absentmindedly turning the wedding ring still on his finger. He doesn't know Daryl very well, in fact, aside from the man's name, Rick doesn't know him at all, but it doesn't stop him from worrying about him. It's the cop in him; always wanting to help those who refuse to help themselves. Not that Daryl can't help himself, but it seems to Rick like he's choosing  _not_ to help himself. While he didn't like it, Rick understood the hold family can have on you, but there has to be a limit to just how much shit someone can take before they collapsed under the pressure. Clearly Daryl has not reached his limit yet, but it doesn't stop Rick from wondering when exactly he will.

He taps his fingers against the steering wheel, studying Daryl's retreating form. Strictly speaking, Rick isn't even supposed to be at the Dixons' place, the sheriff telling him to let it go when he mentioned doing a stake out. The thing is, Rick can't let it go; he can't because he doesn't trust Daryl's brother and he'd hate to see Daryl wind up in the morgue because of him.

Without making the conscious decision, Rick puts the car back into drive and slowly follows Daryl. He catches up pretty quickly, the other guy huffing, shaking his head back and forth. He fixes Rick with a scowl and grunts, "What?"

"Let me buy you a drink," Rick says holding his hands up when Daryl looks like he wants to argue. "No ulterior motive, nothing like that. Just a drink."

Daryl is quiet for a long moment before asking, "You done watching my house?"

Rick could lie, could tell Daryl that he'll never see him again after tonight, but he decides to be honest and says, "For now."

The other man clearly does not like that answer, his scowl deepening, but he doesn't say anything. He pulls a hand from his pocket, ruffling his hair, glancing over his shoulder at his trailer, chewing his lip, an uncertain look on his face. He looks back at Rick after a few seconds, shrugs his shoulders, and says, "If you're buyin'."

The ride to the bar is completely silent. Daryl stares out the window the whole time, alternating between chewing on his thumb nail and tapping his fingers against his knees. It's obvious that he's uncomfortable in the squad car; possibly uncomfortable around Rick. His track record with squad cars, so far, has probably been sitting in the backseat with the sirens blaring. This isn't a normal occurrence for him, willingly going somewhere with a cop. Of course, it's not exactly an everyday thing for Rick, either, having a beer with a complete stranger. Granted, he hasn't exactly gone out for a beer with anyone, not since he and Shane stopped talking, Lambert's offer the first one he'd had in months.

This could be good for him, having a beer with someone who doesn't know his past. It could possibly be good for Daryl too, getting away from his brother for a bit. It could also be a complete disaster, but it doesn't hurt to at least try.

* * *

Daryl swipes a pack of cigarettes sitting on the edge of an unoccupied table as he walks past it, pocketing them. He notices the incredulous look Rick throws him, the cop clearly catching what he did, and Daryl shrugs his shoulders. Whoever left them sitting out in the open doesn't deserve them, even if they are a shitty brand. They sit across from each other in a booth, and Rick shrugs off his jacket while Daryl otps to keep his on, letting his eyes scan the bar.

It's one of those hole-in-the-wall places that Merle frequents more time than is probably healthy. Half the patrons are no doubt regulars, spending their money on an early death by Cirrhosis. Daryl's father used to have his own stool at a place like this, even broke a bottle over a guy's head for sitting on it, and spent every single day of his adult life on that stool until he dropped dead of a heart attack at fifty-one.

Thinking about his father is the last thing he wants to do, so Daryl directs his attention to Rick and asks, "Any reason why you're offerin' me a beer?"

The cop shrugs, leaning back in his seat, tapping his fingers against the table, keeping pace with the song softly playing from the speakers overhead. "How long have you been living here?" he asks curiously, his fingers stilling.

It's Daryl's turn to shrug, and he mutters, "Couple months."

"Where'd you live before?"

"I ain't playing twenty questions with ya," Daryl replies sharply, and Rick backs off, raising his hands defensively. "Why d'you even care?"

"Just curious."

A pretty, brunette waitress appears a couple minutes later, setting a bowl of pretzels onto the table between them, pulling an order book out of her apron. She smiles at Rick and cheerfully says, "Hey Rick. It's been a while."

"Hey Maggie," the cops greets, rubbing the back of his neck. "Been busy."

"I heard." She gives him a sympathetic look. "Dad says you're in his prayers."

"How is Hershel?"

Maggie shrugs, tapping her purple pen against her order pad. "Same old, same old. So, what can I getcha?"

"Whatever's on tap," Rick answers and Maggie nods, turning to look at Daryl.

She raises a questioning eyebrow and he shrugs and mutters, "Whatever he's havin'."

"Alright." She puts her order pad away, directing her attention to Daryl and fixing him with a hard stare. "I saw you steal those cigarettes." He flushes, but still opens his mouth to argue, closing it when she suddenly smiles. "Stops me from having to take them away from my sister." She walks away, barking at a blond girl to get her butt back to work. The blond grumbles, pushing herself to her feet, saying good-bye to the guy she'd been talking to, and wanders over to a table in the back.

"The Greenes are good people," Rick comments and Daryl nods, looking down at the table. "Maggie's boyfriend's a good guy, too. Delivers pizzas to help pay his way through college. Lives a couple blocks from my apartment. And my neighbor, she and her boyfriend have a kid, he's six."

"Why are you tellin' me this?"

Rick doesn't answer right away, offering Maggie a smile when she sets down two mugs of beer. When she's out of earshot, he leans over the table and whispers, "This is my town, these are my people, and if your brother is doing anything to disrupt their lives in any way."

"Merle ain't doin' shit," Daryl hisses irritably, curling his hands into fists. "Is this why I'm here? So you can interrogate me about my brother?"

"You're here because I figured you needed a drink," Rick replies pulling back, picking his mug up. He takes a drink, putting it back onto the table, and adds, "I'm just telling ya that your brother needs to be more careful. I don't care why he shot that gun..."

"I never said he did."

Ignoring the interruption, Rick continues, "...I just don't want him doing it again. Alright?" Daryl refuses to answer, making it a point to _not_ look at the other man, so the cop ducks his head to catch his eyes and repeats, "Alright?"

He huffs but says, "Alright."

"Good." Rick leans further into his seat, fiddling with the wedding ring on his finger. "I don't need anyone turning up dead."

"No one will," Daryl grunts snatching his beer off the table.

Rick gives him a skeptical look, and, truthfully, Daryl doesn't blame him. Had he been in the cop's shoes, he wouldn't have believed him either. Merle's always been a bit of a wildcard, doing what he wants, when he wants, regardless of the consequences. He's been in and out of jail since the age of seven, when he took a bat to some black guy's car and smashed every window before climbing onto the hood and pissing on the seats through the broken windshield. At eighteen, after he nearly killed an Asian kid, a judge gave him a choice between the army or prison, and Merle picked the army; only to get dishonorably discharged and sent to jail anyway. He's a mean, vicious son of a bitch who could easily kill a man without blinking an eye. Rick has a legit reason to be worried, but that still doesn't mean Daryl's going to throw his brother under the bus. They were kin, blood, and you don't turn your back on family.

After they finish their beer, Rick offers to give Daryl a ride home, but he says, "I'll walk."

"If you're sure."

He lights a cigarette the moment he's outside and begins the long walk home. Half the pack is gone by the time he gets back to the park, his hands shaking a little bit. He really doesn't want to go home, not yet anyway, but he's not exactly sure where else to go. He doesn't know this town, doesn't know any of the people (unless he counts Rick Grimes, but he doesn't), and he's not about to wander around because he knows some paranoid fuck will call the cops if they spot him (it's happened too many times to count).

His and Merle's place is a piece of crap. It only has one bedroom, dozens of water stains on the ceiling, the carpet smells like cat piss, and the toilet is always clogged, but it's cheap and can be easily abandoned at the drop of a hat. They rarely stick around one place for more than a few months, Merle always getting into trouble eventually, so Daryl isn't going to start complaining about their crappy trailer. It's not even home to him; nowhere has ever felt like home to him. Not even when he had been a kid, living with his dad. Granted, Will Dixon had a talent for taking anything good in your life and making it a nightmare. Nothing ever made the man happy.

Correction, one thing made him happy: alcohol. The man drank like a fish, hardly breathed a sober breath in his life, and he'd been a nasty drunk. Daryl shivers at the memories that still haunt him. Of bruises and cuts; broken bones and concussions; of a man who hated life so much that he dragged his two boys down with him until one turned out as nasty as him and the other...

Well, Daryl's not sure what he turned into, but he sure as shit didn't turn into his father.

The door's locked, but he's not surprised. It's not the first time Merle locked him out, and he knows it won't be the last either. He jumps off the stoop, kneeling onto the ground, and reaches under the trailer. He pulls a fake rock free, flipping it open, and pulls the spare key he had made from inside. He replaces the rock, pushes himself to his feet, and lets himself into the trailer.

Merle's passed out on the couch, clutching a mostly empty bottle of beer, snoring loud enough to wake the dead. Daryl carefully creeps past the couch, shrugging his jacket off. He tosses it onto the counter, opening one of the cabinets and grabbing a glass. He fills it with water, drains the contents, and puts the glass in the sink. He heads into Merle's room, sitting on the edge of his brother's bed, pulling his boots off and throwing them into the corner. He lies back, staring at the ceiling, counting the tiles for the hundredth time.

His mind wanders to Rick Grimes; Officer Meddlesome. He's going to get himself killed, butting into their lives like he's doing, and no amount of small town hospitality is going to change that fact. Merle, or someone like his brother, will make sure of it.

Daryl turns onto his side, cradling his ribs protectively, closing his eyes. He doesn't fall asleep for a long while, but his brother's snores lull him into a fitful sleep, and he dreams of bruise and blood and a lost childhood he can never get back.


	3. Fireproof

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments last chapter. I really appreciate them.
> 
> Thanks for reading, I still don't own 'em, and enjoy.

Rick dreams of Lori.

_She just turned sixteen and they're driving down the backroads, the windows of his daddy's truck rolled all the way down, ZZ Top's_ Gimme All Your Lovin' _blaring from the speakers while the warm, Georgia wind blew through their hair. Lori sings along, bobbing her head to the music, and Rick grins at her. After weeks, he had finally asked her on a date, and she'd said yes. He doesn't know where they're going, but she'd asked him to drive and he's pretty sure he'd do anything for her at that moment._

_Suddenly, the dream morphs, and Rick is no longer driving. He's standing in the doorway of his and Lori's room, swallowing past the lump in his throat, watching as his best friend fucks his wife on his and Lori's bed, the same bed they conceived their son. Her head is thrown back, a blissful look on her face, but suddenly her eyes catch his, and she whispers, "I never loved you."_

Rick's eyes snap open, the side of his face pressed into his pillow. He breaths for a moment before he sits up in bed, grabbing his phone, checking the time. He sighs, tossing it back onto his nightstand, leaning back against his headboard, running a hand through his hair. He stares at the wall for a while, very much aware of the sun slowly rising, the light creeping across his bedroom floor. When his alarm goes off, he shuts it off, shoves his blankets off, and gets to his feet.

He stumbles out of his room, heading towards the coffee maker, and starts a new pot. He leans against the counter, not allowing himself to think about his dream. If he thought about it, he'd have to remember the night he found Shane and Lori; have to remember the look on both of their faces. He remembers feeling numb, remembers quietly asking, "How long?" Like it'd make a difference; like everything would be magically better as long as it hadn't been going on too long. Deep down, he'd pretty much known his marriage had been over months before he found them, but he had been denying the truth. Walking in on Shane and Lori cemented it, brought what he had been too afraid to admit to the surface, made him face the fact that he and Lori weren't destined to be together.

He runs his hand down his face, rubs the side of his neck, wishes he could scrub the memories clean. He wishes for a lot of things.

After two cups of coffee, he gets ready for work and watches a bit of TV before heading to the station. Diane greets him when he walks past her desk, and he offers her a smile, heading directly to his desk. He stops when he sees Shane waiting for him, sitting in his chair, looking at the photos on Rick's desk. He looks up when he hears Rick approach, getting to his feet.

"Hey," he greets rubbing the back of his freshly shaved head.

"Hey," Rick repeats softly.

They stand there awkwardly for a few moments before Shane nods and walks back to his desk. Rick lets out a shaky breath, shaking his head. He and Shane have been friends since they were three, used to do everything together, and now they were barely talking. Rick's not sure if they're friendship can ever be repaired, and that hurts a little, but he never asked Shane to sleep with Lori.

He sinks into his chair, turning his computer on, glaring at the family photo. He figures Shane's the one who fixed it and that makes Rick a little angry. He pushes the emotion down, typing in his password, brushing his hair off his forehead. He knocks his knuckles against his desk, staring at his desk phone. Sometimes he wants to pick it up, call Lori, pretend they're still together. He wants to ask her what she's doing, listen to her soft laughter when he tells her what he and Shane had been up to today. Sometimes he wants his old life back.

He looks down at his wedding ring, knows he should probably take it off eventually, but he's not ready. He doesn't know if he'll ever be ready. He sighs, needing to get his mind off Lori and Shane, and opts to do a quick search. He logs onto the Sheriff's Department database, glancing around to make sure no one is watching him, and types _Daryl Dixon_ into the search bar. He hits enter, leaning back into his seat, waiting for the results.

It takes a minute, but finally a few things pop up. For the most part, Daryl's been pretty good at staying out of trouble. He has had a couple parking tickets, been arrested a few times for bar brawls (the charges never stuck), but nothing huge has happened to him. The only thing that worries Rick, is the missing person's report filed by someone named Carol Peletier a few years back. He studies the name for a moment before writing it down on a scrap of paper, making a note to look her up later.

He nearly logs off, but he pauses when he spots _Merle Dixon_ under 'living relatives.' Rick does another quick check around the immediate area before clicking on Merle's name. It takes a bit longer, and Rick sees why when the results pop up. Merle has a criminal record a mile long, starting at the age of seven and steadily working it's way up to a year ago. He's been arrested over two dozen times, been in prison four times, and would still be locked up if he hadn't gotten out on a technicality two years ago. He'd also been dishonorably discharged from the army, but the records are sealed so Rick can't find out why (not without cutting through miles of red tape). Merle Dixon is a rotten sonofabitch, a terror to this town and it's people, yet there's nothing Rick can do about it until the elder Dixon brother breaks the law.

He seriously doubts he'll have to wait very long.

* * *

Daryl likes to take walks during the day. When he'd been a kid, and things got particularly bad at home, he'd climb out of his bedroom window and wander through the woods, letting his feet carry him wherever they pleased. His dad never realized he was missing, something that didn't surprise Daryl one bit because Will Dixon only paid attention to his sons when he was knocking them around, and sometimes he wondered how far he could get if he kept going, never turned back, but always returned home when he had gotten too hungry to go on.

Saturday morning, he finds himself wandering around town, ignoring the wary stares the locals are giving him as he walks past them. A few times, he heard a biddy mutter to their friends about the 'delinquent' but he ignored them. They're nothing but crotchety, old bitches anyway. Merle had been working his way through a bottle of Jim Beam when Daryl had left, so he knows his brother won't be tolerable when he gets home. Today might be the day he doesn't go home.

Someone runs into Daryl, knocking him out of his meandering thoughts, and he turns to see a kid (probably around 10 or 11) storming down the sidewalk. A woman exits the post office a moment later, a harried expression on her face. Her dark eyes settle on Daryl and she worriedly asks, "Have you seen my son Carl?"

He jerks a thumb behind him and the woman quietly thanks him before chasing after the kid. Daryl watches her go for a few seconds before continuing on his way. He stops at the connor mini mart, buys a pack of cigarettes, and eventually finds himself across the street from the police station.  He lights a cigarette, watching the place as he inhales a lungful of smoke. He could easily walk inside, turn Merle in, be free from his brother forever, but he could never do that; never betray Merle like that. He's the only person Daryl has left.

He blows out the smoke, walking away. He ends up at the bar Rick took him to the night before, sitting in the back. The blond waitress (the one Maggie told to get back to work last time) takes his order, giving him a bright smile, trying to talk to him, but he responds to her questions with shrugs and grunts until she eventually gets the hint and leaves him alone. He steadily works his way through his pack of cigarettes, nursing his beer, letting the hours slip by as he watches the bar fill up and empty around him.

About five, he gets up, figuring he's overstayed his welcome. He leaves a tip on the table, along with an ashtray full of cigarette butts, and walks out of the bar. He shoves his hands into his pockets, slowly walking home. He stops at the mini mart again, buying another pack of cigarettes and a sandwich, opening the former while pocketing the latter. He's smoked three cigarettes by the time he gets back to the trailer park, his eyes catching sight of Rick Grimes' squad car within seconds.

He walks towards the car, tapping on the window, startling the cop. Rick rolls down the window, a small, tired smile creeping across his lips, and says, "Hey, Daryl."

"Here." Daryl takes the sandwich out of his pocket, handing it over to Rick. Surprised, the cop accepts the food, giving Daryl a questioning look, and the archer shrugs. "Figured you'd be hungry. Since, ya know, yer stalking my house."

"Uh, thank you," Rick answers looking down at the sandwich. He looks up a few seconds later and adds, "And I'm not stalking your house."

"Whatever," Daryl grunts shrugging again. He shoves his hands in his pockets and heads inside, very much aware of the cop watching him walk away. Merle isn't home, but he left behind proof of how he spent his day. There's vomit in the sink, an empty bottle sitting on the table, and a dirty needle lying on the floor. Daryl rubs his eyes, sighing, but slowly starts cleaning up after his brother.

* * *

Rick gets a hold of Carol Peletier a few days later, having had a hard time finding her since she moved a couple days after her husband Earl died. The autopsy report said 'heart attack,' but Rick has a feeling there's more to the man's death than a simples health issue. He also has a feeling Earl hadn't exactly been husband of the year, if the numerous amount of complaints filed against him mean anything.

When he calls, a child timidly answers, " _Hello?"_

"Hi," he replies sitting up in his chair. "Is your mother home?"

" _Yeah, hold on."_   He hears the phone get put down and the girl's muffled voice call, " _Mama, phone."_

There's shuffling and a second, muffled voice asks, " _Who is it?"_

" _Some guy,"_ the girl answers.

The phone is picked up and the second voice warily says, " _Hello?"_

"Ms. Peletier?"

" _Yes?"_

"This is Deputy Grimes from the Kings County Sheriff's Department." He hears her intake of breath, but he decides to ignore it. Even if she did, in fact, kill her husband (or have someone do it for her), Rick can't exactly do anything if he doesn't have proof (not that he'd want to, if his suspicions about Earl are true). Instead, he quickly says, "There's no trouble, ma'am. I just want to ask you a couple of questions."

" _About?"_ She's cautious, and he doesn't blame her.

"About a missing person's report you filed in 2008," he replies slowly, and he hears her take a nervous breath.

" _Is Daryl okay?"_ she asks after a beat, sounding worried.

"He's fine," Rick answers quickly.

She sighs, relieved, and says, " _We were friends. He worked with my husband Earl."_ He can hear the underlying bitterness in her voice, when she spoke about her late husband, and that confirmed Rick's suspicions. " _He had always been nice to me and my daughter. I got worried when he didn't show up for work one day, thought something might have happened to him because of that brother of his, and then I get a call from Daryl, a few days later, telling me he's left town."_ She omitted a couple details, Rick can tell, but he decides not to push her for the information (it's clearly something she does not want to discuss). " _Are you sure he's alright?"_

"Yeah," he answers softly, a sudden knock on his door startling him. "I'm sorry for bothering you, Ms. Peletier." He hangs up, getting to his feet, heading towards the door. He pulls it open and his son barrels into his legs, nearly knocking him to the floor.

"Carl, what's wrong?" he asks worriedly, instantly wrapping his arms protectively around his son.

"Shane asked Mom to marry him," Carl replies, his voice muffled as he buries his face into his dad's stomach. "I don't wanna live with them anymore."

Feeling a little lost, a little numb, Rick mutters, "It's okay."

Carl eventually falls asleep on Rick's couch, and the cop takes the opportunity to call Lori. She answers on the first ring, " _Carl?"_

"It's me," he says after a brief pause.

" _Is he there?"_ she asks, her voice shaky, clearly on the verge of tears.

"He's here," Rick answers softly, glancing over at their son. "He's fine."

" _Oh, thank god,"_ she whispers sniffing. " _I thought..."_

"Yeah." He hangs his head, looking at his feet, still trying to process what Carl had told him. "He told me, about..."

" _Oh."_ Lori's quiet for a long moment before she sighs and says, " _I didn't give him an answer."_

"Uh-huh."

It's quiet again, much longer than before, but finally Lori asks, " _Can I talk to Carl?"_

_"_ He's asleep." Rick runs a hand through his son's hair, ruffling it a bit. "I'll bring him home when he wakes up."

She sniffs again, letting out a shaky breath. " _Alright. Goodbye Rick."_

"Yeah, goodbye." He hangs up, tossing his phone on his desk, and sinks onto the couch next to Carl. He grabs the remote off the arm of the couch, turning the TV on, immediately muting it. He slowly flips through the channels, not finding anything interesting, and almost turns it off, but a news report catches his attention. A reporter is talking about a local fire, and the moment the footage from the burning trailer crosses the screen, Rick jumps to his feet.

He calls Michonne, asking her to check in on Carl, and quickly rushes out of his apartment.

* * *

Daryl coughs himself awake, smoke pouring into the living room from the back bedroom. He scrambles off the couch, rushing into his brother's room, shielding his eyes from the fire engulfing the bedspread. He tries to call his brother's name, but his lungs quickly fill with smoke and he coughs again. His eyes are watering, but he ignores that as he searches desperately for his brother.

Eventually, his vision rapidly graying around the edges, Daryl staggers towards the front door, throwing it open and nearly tripping over his feet in his haste to get out of the burning trailer. He stumbles down the stoop steps, coughing when he takes in a great gulp of fresh air. He hears someone screaming, another person is calling the fire department, but he can't see who is doing what, his coughing getting worse. He staggers back a step, struggling to breath, and hears a sudden gasp before the ground rushes towards his face.

He comes to in the back of an ambulance with Rick Grimes' face hovering over his, looking worried. There's something heavy over his nose and mouth, but when he tries to remove it, the cop grabs his hand and says, "Leave it. It's helping you breath."

"Where's...?" Daryl feebly coughs, trying to suck in a deep breath, his chest hurting. "Merle...?"

"Your brother?" When Daryl nods Rick softly states, "He wasn't inside the trailer." Relief rushes through the archer; his brother is okay. His relief is short lived when Rick adds, "We're trying to track him down."

"What?" Daryl gasps giving the cop a confused look. "Where... is... he?"

"We don't know." Rick glances over his shoulder, a pensive look crossing his face. He looks back at Daryl a few seconds later, offering the archer a small, smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, and asks, "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yeah," Daryl whispers nodding. "Kinda... tired."

"Well, you get some rest." Rick grips his shoulder briefly before getting up, slowly moving towards the back of the ambulance. He turns back, meeting Daryl's eyes, and says, "We'll find your brother, alright?" Mutely, Daryl nods, letting his eyes slip shut. He has a feeling Merle left one of his lit cigarettes too close to the bed again, having put out enough to know his brother has that dangerous habit, but Daryl hadn't been awake this time to stop their trailer from going up in flames.

He feels a little guilty, but at the same time relieved. He hated that trailer anyway. He's also worried. The last Daryl checked, his brother had been in his room, snorting something through a stubby straw. That had been about an hour before he fell asleep. What happened between then and the fire? Where had Merle gone? And would he care if he knew his brother almost died?

Daryl shudders, trying hard not to think about that, but knowing if he hadn't coughed himself awake he wouldn't be lying here right now. He'd be dead, gone, and that scares him more than it should. He's had to face his own mortality a lot over the past few years, and it never gets any easier.

He hopes it never gets any easier.

* * *

Lambert and Rick eventually track Merle down. He's wandering the streets, muttering to himself, looking as if he has enough drugs in his system to kill a rhino. Rick cautiously approaches the elder Dixon, motioning for Lambert to stay back, and softly says, "Mr. Dixon?" When he doesn't get a response, he tries again. "Mr. Dixon?" Slowly, he reaches out, putting his hand on Merle's shoulder, and the man seems to come alive.

He lashes out, a knife suddenly in his hand, and Rick backs off quickly. He shares a wary look with Lambert, his partner looking between the knife and Rick, and he says, "Be careful."

"Alright." Rick approaches Merle slowly, the other man snarling at him, violently waving his knife back and forth. When Merle suddenly swings at him, Rick pivots to the left, knocking the older guy off balance, and drives a hard punch to his solar plexus, knocking him to the ground. The knife clatters against the concrete, and Rick quickly snaps his handcuffs around Merle's wrists. He wishes he felt more victorious, but, in reality, he just feels bad for Daryl; having to deal with a brother like Merle.

No one should have to deal with a someone like Merle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, Merle's going to come back, I just needed to get him out of the way for a bit so I can move the story along.


	4. The Quiet Things That No One Ever Knows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!! So thanks for the comments and kudos last chapter. They're really appreciated.
> 
> And thanks for reading.
> 
> Bye!!

The ride back to the trailer is silent. Merle hasn't looked at Daryl once, his hands curled into fists in his lap, glaring out the truck window like he has a personal grudge against it. Daryl keeps shooting him furtive looks, waiting for his brother to say something, but Merle's a stubborn sonofabitch. If he's determined not to talk then getting anything out of him is almost impossible. Their mother had been the same way.

When he parks the truck in front of the trailer, Daryl watches as his brother studies what's left of their most recent home. He huffs, shaking his head back and forth, and shoves the passenger door open, jumping out of the cab. Daryl waits a beat before shutting the engine off and following Merle. He finds his brother sifting through the remains of his old room, grumbling under his breath.

"What are you doing?" Daryl asks carefully, crossing his arms.

"Nothing," Merle grunts digging through a pile of ashes. "Absolutely fucking nothing." He lets out a frustrated snarl, throwing his hands up, and straightens, storming out of the room. He slams into Daryl's shoulder, hard enough to knock him back a step, and heads towards the door, letting it slam open. Daryl follows him, at a much slower pace, stopping at the top of the stoop stairs.

Merle paces back and forth, muttering to himself, his hands twitching. He stops abruptly, turning to face Daryl, and commands, "Gimme your keys."

"What for?"

"Gimme your fucking keys." Merle stalks across the yard, tries to forcibly take Daryl's keys from his pocket, but the younger guy takes a step back.

"What the fuck are you doin'?"

"Clearly, you don't need me anymore," Merle snaps reaching for his brother again. "Clearly, you're all chummy with Officer Friendly."

Daryl dodges the older man, nearly tripping down the stoop steps in his haste to get outside. "Who? What are you talkin' about?"

"This." Merle yanks a business card out of his pocket, flicking it at Daryl's face, and it flutters to the ground. The archer bends down, picking the card up,  and reads the name printed on it. "Hidin' that from me, were ya?"

"Where did you find this?" Daryl demands looking up to meet his brother's eyes.

"Doesn't matter." That's usually Merle speak for 'I needed drug money, so I checked your pockets.'

"This?" Daryl waves the card in the air. "That cop gave it to me the day he stopped by."

"Is that the same cop who's been sittin' outside of our house? Have you two been plottin' against me since the beginning?"

"Where's this comin' from?"

"You've been tryin' to get away from me for years. Ever since ya met that bitch in Atlanta."

"That's not true," Daryl argues, his voice sharp, eyes hard. "And leave Carol outta this."

"Ya probably would have stayed with her if ya ain't gone and killed her husband." Merle slowly walks down the steps, raising his eyebrows inquisitively as he asks, "Does yer good buddy Officer Friendly  _know_ you killed someone?"

"I ain't never killed anyone." Daryl takes a step back from his brother, forcing himself to keep looking at him. "'sides the sumbitch had it comin' and you know it."

"You might not have put a gun to his head, but you sure as shit didn' call an ambulance when he fell down, clutching his arm." A sudden burst of anger pierces Daryl's chest and he punches Merle. His brother's head snaps to the side; his lip is bleeding when he looks back at the younger man. He licks the blood, smirking, and whispers, "That make ya feel better? Hittin' me?"

"Look, Merle, I..." Merle lashes out, jamming his fist into Daryl's stomach, doubling the younger man over.

He grabs his brother's hair, pulling his head back, and says, "You ever punch me again, you better sure it knocks me out." Merle digs into Daryl's pocket, yanking his keys free, and pats his head. "See ya around, baby brother." He releases the younger man, letting him drop to the ground, and steps over him, heading towards Daryl's truck.

Daryl's not sure how long he lays on the ground, but when he eventually sits up, he looks down at the coke he palmed, and mutters, "Good luck gettin' far without yer stash, asshole." He drags himself to his feet, clutching his sore torso, and staggers towards the stoop steps. He sits down on the bottom one, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees, glaring at the ground.

This isn't the first time his brother's taken off; hell it's not even the tenth. Merle gets into these moods, leaves for days, sometimes weeks on end, and usually returns like nothing happened. It's been the same since they were kids, and it'll still be the same until one of them dies. This is, however, the first time he's accused Daryl of wanting to leave him, and the accusation leaves the archer a little numb; a little lost.

As much as he's thought about it, about packing his shit and taking off in the middle of the night, he's never actually considered it. He could never leave Merle on his own; no matter what his brother did to him. He couldn't abandon his family; couldn't do what his selfish brother does every chance he gets; that's not how he is. He probably gets it from his mother, who spent eight years with a man who didn't love her just because she feared being alone.

Much later, Daryl hears a car pull up, and he looks up to see Rick Grimes behind the wheel. He rolls his eyes, expecting to be angry, seeing the cop sitting in front of his house, but instead he feels mildly irritated at best. He shoves himself to his feet, crossing his arms, and says, "What?"

"Wanted to make sure you were okay," Rick states through the open window. "I didn't have the chance to talk to you at the police station." He scans the area, his forehead wrinkling in concern, and asks, "Where's Merle?" Daryl looks away from the cop, shuffling his feet, and shrugs. "He's not supposed to leave town," Rick informs Daryl, and the archer nods, already knowing this; Officer Buzzcut telling him this before releasing Merle.

Rick sighs, getting out of his car. He walks towards the archer, stopping just out of reach of him, and asks, "You think he's going to come back?"

Daryl shrugs again, rubbing the back of his neck, and mutters, "Usually does."

"I'm gonna have to arrest him if I see him," Rick says matter of factly. "He jumped bail."

"I know," Daryl mumbles after a short pause, cramming his hands into his pockets. "Is that all you wanted?"

Rick shrugs, flicking his nose with his thumb. The two men stand there for a brief moment, neither one looking at each other, but the deputy breaks the silence. "You leaving, too?"

"Don't know," Daryl admits softly. He hadn't exactly had time to think about leaving; Merle's only been gone about an hour or two. "Suppose I should; there's nothing left for me here."

"My neighbor Michonne is looking for help down at her shop," Rick offers casually, lifting one shoulder. "You could stick around town, see if she'll give you a job."

"And why would I do that?"

"Why not?"

Daryl gives Rick a searching look, wondering what exactly the cop's playing at, but Grimes looks back at him innocently. "What's here for me?"

"What's out there for you," Rick retorts and walks away, getting into his car. "Think about it," he calls through the open window, starting the car, and slowly backs out of the parking space. He offers Daryl a two-fingered wave before driving away.

* * *

Rick's standing at the stove, stirring a pot of soup, when he hears someone knock at his door. He turns the burner off and heads towards the door, pulling it open to find Michonne standing on the other side. She holds up a sixer of Coors and says, "I should thank you."

Rick steps back, letting her inside, closing the door behind her. "For?"

"That guy you sent my way," she replies putting the beer on his kitchen counter. "Way better than the other two applicants, and he gets along with Sasha."

"Daryl came to see you?" Rick asks curiously, leaning against the table. "Today?"

"This morning," Michonne answers pulling one of the beers from the pack. She uses the edge of the counter to knock the lid off her bottle, stooping down to pick it up off the floor. "He's a little quiet, but he's handy with tools and seems to know what he's doing. That's all I care about."

Something flits across her face and Rick says, "What?"

"It's nothing," Michonne starts sipping her beer, leaning against the counter. "He seem alright to you?"

"Hard telling," Rick answers with a shrug, running a hand through his hair. "He has this brother..." he trails off, shaking his head gravely. "Worried Daryl might turn up dead one of these days."

"His brother still in town?" Rick has to fight a smile at Michonne's question, remembering the katana hanging on her wall. He still doesn't have the nerve to ask her if she's ever used the sword on anyone.

"He left yesterday," the cop answers picking a beer up. He studies the label, a pensive look crossing his face. "Kinda glad he's gone, to be honest, but he jumped bail."

"Is this the first time?"

Rick snorts, putting the beer back. "Probably not."

"What are you going to do?"

"Protocol says I have to put out an APB, have him extradited back here if he's caught..."

"But?"

Rick sighs, rubbing his forehead. "I don't want him back in my town. I don't want him out on bail just so he can run again." He shrugs, settling his palms on the table, and says, "I don't know what I wanna do."

Michonne drains the rest of her beer, placing the bottle on his counter. She crosses the room, patting his shoulder, and says, "You'll figure it out." She offers him a smile, stepping away from him, and nods towards the TV. "Eddie and Julian aren't due back for another hour. Want to hang out?"

"Sure," Rick answers picking up the case of beer and following his friend into the living room. Truthfully, he's not sure if he'll ever figure it out, but he silently thanks Michonne for the sentiment.

* * *

Daryl falls into a pattern over the next week. He gets up around six, heads to the garage, works until noon, has lunch with Sasha and Michonne, goes back to work, and gets home at four. He's not used to sticking to a schedule, hell, he's not used to sticking to anything this long, but he doesn't exactly hate it either. It's nice to finally have a stable job; a stable home. Sure, he's been staying at the local motel, but it could be worse.

He finds himself at the bar Saturday night, having finally accepted the invitation to go with Michonne and Sasha. Both women have been offering since his first day of work, but he's always found an excuse to stay at home. Now he figures, if he's going to stay in this tiny town, he might as well make a few friends.

"What's your story, Dixon?" Sasha asks leaning back in her seat, taking a swig of her beer. "What made you decide to stick around a town like this?"

Daryl makes an attempt to answer, but his words die on his lips when Rick walks into the bar. He's with another guy, both wearing uniforms, and he's smiling at whatever his friend has said. Maggie greets them from behind the bar, putting a mug of beer down in front of her boyfriend, and jokes, "You two allowed to be out this late? Wouldn't want the sheriff to catch ya."

"Too late," the two men say together, nodding towards the corner. Daryl glances in that direction, finding another man and a woman sitting in a booth. The woman waves in Rick's direction, and the deputy waves back as he and his friend maneuver their way over to them. When Rick passes Daryl's table he stops and smiles at all three of his fellow patrons, but he directs his attention to Daryl.

"Haven't seen you in a while. You sticking around, then?"

Daryl shrugs, looking down at the table. "Figured I'd give this small town thing a chance."

"And?"

"'s not so bad," the archers admits, scratching the back of his head.

"That's great." He grins, looking over at Michonne and Sasha. "You two ladies keeping him in line?"

"Shit," Sasha starts ruffling Daryl's hair, "you're more of a menace to this town than Daryl." 

"It's true," Michonne jokes with a serious look on her face. "On Tuesday he helped Mika Samuels find her cat."

"'s nothing," he grunts picking at the label on his bottle, hunching into himself.

"Admit it, Dixon," Sasha starts wrapping an arm around his shoulders, "you're a big ol' softy."

"Shut up." He shrugs off Sasha's arm, ducking his head, trying to make himself smaller. He hates being the center of attention, would really like it if someone changed the subject.

"There may be hope for you, yet," Rick states and winks at Daryl. He nods to Michonne and Sasha, tells the trio goodbye, and joins his fellow police officers.

Sasha changes the subject a few minutes later, much to Daryl's relief, and he spends the rest of the night letting hers and Michonne's words wash over him, while he picks at his beer bottle, thinking about Rick's parting words: ' _There may be hope for you yet.'_  Daryl knows it had been a joke, teasing between one guy and another, but the words also meant something more; signified something else.

Daryl has always gone along with what Merle's wanted, never really made any decisions for himself, but here, in this tiny town, he no longer has to blindly go along with what anyone tells him; he can be his own person. He's never given much thought, as to who he is, but it's a good time to figure it out; to learn. So, yes, Rick had been joking, but his words also opened up a door Daryl's always been too scared to go through; are taking him down a path that most Dixons have never even considered taking.

He's not sure how he feels about this, but Rick's not exactly wrong. There may very well still be hope for Daryl Dixon. He just hopes he doesn't fuck it up.

* * *

Rick parks his car across the street from Michonne's garage, waiting for a Dodge to drive by before getting out. He checks both ways before jogging across the street, pushing the office door open. He finds Sasha sitting behind the counter, fiddling with a carburetor, but she looks up when she hears him enter. She puts the part down, wiping her greasy hands on her jumpsuit, and asks, "Your car break down again?"

"Nah, it's still runs fine," Rick answers leaning against the counter. "Thank you, by the way."

Sasha shrugs, picking up her carburetor again. "It was a busted fuel tank. Wasn't a problem." She begins working on her part, nodding behind her. "Michonne is in the back, working on Walsh's jeep. He might be back there too, if you're looking for him."

Rick hesitates, glancing towards the steel door. He looks back at Sasha and says, "That's fine, I don't wanna bother them. Tell Michonne I stopped by." He backs towards the door, intending to head home, but he runs into someone.

Hands grab his arms, steadying him, and a familiar voice says, "Walk much or just read about it?"

Rick turns, grinning up at Daryl, and states, "Well I don't read much, got any books you'd recommend?"

The archer is taken aback for a brief second, but he snorts, letting the cop go, and grunts, "Yer not as funny as you think, Grimes."

"You think so?"

"I know so."

Rick opens his mouth to retort, but he hears someone clear their throat. He turns, his eyes settling on Sasha. She's studying both men, an amused look flitting across her face, and Rick asks, "Problem?"

"Nope." She looks back at her part, picking up a screwdriver. Conversationally, she says, "You know, Daryl's lunch break is in about ten minutes. Maybe you two should go get something." Her eyes flick up for a brief moment and she smiles before letting her attention fall on the carburetor again. "I'm sure Michonne won't mind if he punches out early."

"You sure?" Rick glances back at Daryl and the archer shrugs. "Alright."

Daryl goes to wash his hands, leaving Rick and Sasha alone for a couple minutes, and Rick can't quite shake the feeling that Sasha knows something he doesn't. He opens his mouth to ask her why she keeps smirking, but his words trail off when Shane walks into the main office. Both men tense, an awkward silence settling over the room. Sasha looks up from her part, looking between the two men, and says, "If you two don't start breathing I'm going to have to call Bob."

Rick lets out a puff of breath and says, "Hey."

"Hey," Shane greets shoving his hands into his back pockets.

"So, I guess congratulations are in order," Rick states stiffly, fighting the urge to curl his hands into fists.

"Yeah." Shane pulls a hand from his pocket, rubbing the back of his head. "Carl must have told you Lori said yes last weekend."

"He did." Rick silently wills Daryl to hurry up.

"It's just, with the baby and everything..."

Rick laughs once, humorlessly, nodding his head. "Well, like I said, congratulations," he states gruffly and turns on his heel, walking out of the garage. He ignores Shane when he tries to call him back, stalking towards his car. About halfway there, he hears someone else call his name, and he slows down so Daryl can catch up to him.

"What'd Officer Buzzcut want?" he asks softly, a little warily.

Rick offers Daryl a tight smile and says, "Nothing. Where do you want to eat?"

Daryl's quiet for a long moment before he says, "I don't care."

"Alright. Abraham makes the best apple pies, so we'll stop by his place."

"Okay."

The drive to the diner is quiet; Rick glares out the windshield while Daryl shifts between looking out the window and giving the cop cautious glances. In fact, neither man says anything until after Tara has taken their orders. Rick lets out a gust of air and states, "He's going to marry my ex-wife."

"What?"

"That guy. Shane _._ He's going to marry my ex-wife." He huffs, shaking his head. "He used to be my best friend, then my partner on the force, until I walked in on him and my wife having sex in our bed." Rick's hands curl into fists and he mutters, "The divorce has barely been finalized a month."

"Shit," Daryl mutters chewing on his bottom lip.

"The kicker," Rick starts giving Daryl a bitter smile, "is apparently Lori's pregnant." He runs both hands through his hair, shaking his head back and forth. "I shouldn't be too surprised. Shane has always had a thing for Lori; ever since high school. He actually asked her out before I did, but she turned him down." Rick absentmindedly shreds his napkin, leaving a pile of paper on the table. "She probably should have just accepted the date."

"My dad killed my mom," Daryl states softly, his eyes seemingly trying to burn a hole in the table. He shrugs and adds, "It could be worse."

Rick reaches over the table, gripping the archer's shoulder, and says, "You're right." He releases the other man, sinking back into his chair. "Sorry about your mom."

Daryl lifts a shoulder and mutters, "She was a drunk. Don't worry about it."


	5. Don't Look Back In Anger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really, really, really short, and I am so sorry for that, but I wanted to get something updated before you guys started thinking I abandoned this story (which I have not).
> 
> So, thanks for reading, thank you to those who commented last chapter, and I still don't own anyone.
> 
> Bye!!

Lunch becomes a regular thing between Daryl and Rick. It starts out every few days before slowly transitioning into four times a week. They usually meet at Abraham's Diner, sit at whichever table's free, and accept the menus Tara hands them. Rick doesn't need it, since he always orders the same thing, but Daryl likes to skim, likes to choose something new every day, likes variety. It surprises Rick a little, he'd always pegged Daryl as a creature of habit, as someone who is set in his ways and doesn't stray, but he finds he likes this quirk a lot more. In some unexplained way, it seems to fit Daryl better.

There are rare times, when Rick will stop by the shop to pick Daryl up, and Sasha will openly stare at him from behind the counter, amusement flitting across her face, but every time Rick asks her about it, she shrugs and says, "Nothing." It's pretty clear she's lying, but he doesn't press the point, decides it's not worth it, and figures if it really is important, she'll come to him with her concerns.

About a month and a half after the first time they had lunch together, he and Daryl are crammed in a corner booth at Abraham's, the former laughing softly as the latter turns a bright red. He scowls, burying his face in his menu. "You fucking asked."

Rick reaches forward, pressing Daryl's menu down, grinning when the archer glares at him. He takes a gulping breath, pulling his hand back, getting himself under control, and says, "I'm sorry. It's just, I always had a thing for Carol Brady, too."

"Shut up." Daryl's face goes a little redder, if that's even possible, and he looks down at the table, his eyes narrowed.

"I'm serious. Though, if we're being honest, I prefered Alice more."

"Fuck off, Grimes," Daryl grumbles but he's fighting a smile.

"I think it was the blue uniform that did it for me."

The archer shakes his head, amusement flickering in his eyes, and Rick chuckles softly. He hears the bell jingle, signifying a new arrival, and turns his head, feeling his smile drop off his face. He watches as Lori and Shane walk into the diner, the latter holding the door open for the former, and he immediately turns to face Daryl again. He slides down a little in his seat, scowling at the table, and he feels a foot knock against his shin. When he looks up, Daryl is giving him a worried look, silently asking him if he's okay, and Rick gives the archer a noncommittal head twitch.

Rick isn't a praying man, in fact he's not sure if he believes in God, but that doesn't stop him from silently willing Lori and Shane to  _not_  see him and Daryl. He hasn't talked to either one since Shane told him about the baby, even going as far as to have Carl ask his mom to drop him off at the apartment. He knows he's being childish, knows he'll eventually have to confront both of them, but he needs more time to process everything.

Daryl shoots a furtive look Lori and Shane's way before shoving himself to his feet and moving around the table, cramming himself into the seat next to Rick, effectively blocking him from the doorway. Daryl doesn't say anything, his eyes locked on the table, but that doesn't stop Rick from moving over just a little, giving him some room. The two sit silently together, waiting for Shane and Lori to collect their takeout and leave, and once the door has closed behind them, Daryl turns to Rick, a guilty look on his face, and murmurs, "Sorry."

"'s fine," Rick replies softly, shrugging his shoulders.

"Figured you didn't want 'em seeing you," Daryl adds rubbing the back of his neck, looking down at the table again.

"I didn't," the cop admits, running his tongue along his bottom lip. He's pretty sure he imagines the way Daryl's eyes track the moment, so he doesn't mention it, instead muttering, "Kinda don't know what to say to them."

"Fuck 'em," Daryl supplies shrugging. "They screwed _you_ over, you don't owe them a fucking thing."

Rick knows he should be mad, Daryl really should mind his own business, but instead he sighs, dejected. He shrugs, tilting his head back, and says, "I've known Shane for over thirty years, been with Lori since I was sixteen, it's not that simple."

Daryl sniffs, getting to his feet. He pulls a couple bills from his pocket, tossing them onto the table, and says, "Well, it should be." He then walks out, shoving the door open with more force than is probably necessary, and Rick's left alone, confusion no doubt etched on his face.

* * *

Sasha looks up when Daryl slams the door behind him, raising her eyebrows in inquiry, but he ignores her, storming towards the back of the shop. He doesn't even know why he's upset, it's not like Rick hasn't brought up Lori and Shane before, but this time it felt different, and Daryl doesn't like how it makes him feel. He huffs, yanking his cigarettes free from his pocket, and ducks into the breakroom.

He already had two on his way back, but he doesn't care, lighting up a third, and he begins pacing back and forth, muttering darkly under his breath, taking long, calming drags on the cigarette. He hears the door open behind him, turns to see Sasha watching him from the entryway, her arms crossed against her chest, an unreadable look on her face, and Daryl snarls, "What?"

She watches him for another long moment before pointedly stating, "Smoking can kill you." It's clear that's not what she wants to say, but Daryl'd rather get another lecture about his bad habits than hear what she really wants to say.

"I'll keep that in mind," he snarks back taking another, long pull on his cigarette. He blows smoke into the air, stopping his pacing long enough to flick ashes into the metal trash bin near the vending machines.

"I noticed Rick didn't bring you back," she continues, nonchalantly, unfazed by the glare he shoots her way. "You two have a fight or...?"

"We ain't had shit," Daryl snaps stabbing his cigarette out on the bottom of his boot. He tosses the butt into the metal bin, stalking towards the door, pushing past Sasha. "Mind your own damn business." She doesn't follow him, something he's grateful for, but he can feel her eyes on his back as he storms away.

After work, he retrieves his bow from his motel room and takes it out to the woods. He knows hunting season isn't for another three months (not that he cared in the past but for some reason he's reluctant to break the laws in this town), so he uses his pocket knife to carve a target into a tree and uses that to shoot bolts at, letting the familiar  _thump_ of each arrow impacting into the bark wash over him, calming him, until he doesn't feel so irritated anymore.

After a while, when he's feeling a little less irritated, he collects his bolts, shoving them into their small satchel, slings his bow over his shoulder, and turns to go, only to stop when he spots Office Buzzcut ( _Shane_ ,he reminds himself with an annoyed huff) watching him from the treeline. He walks towards the cop, stopping just out of touching distance, and says, "What?"

"This is private property. What are you doing out here?" Shane asks eyeing Daryl's crossbow warily.

"Don't think it's any of your business," Daryl retorts coolly, noting the pinched look that crosses Shane's face. The archer sighs testily and demands, "Am I under arrest?"

Shane hesitates for a brief moment before shaking his head, nodding towards the road. "Not this time, but if I catch ya around here again..."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Daryl grumbles stalking past the cop.

He stops when Shane asks, "How's that brother of yours?"

"Fine," Daryl grunts, keeping his back to the cop. "Perfectly fine."

"He staying out of trouble?"

How the fuck would Daryl know? He hadn't seen Merle in almost two months, but he still shrugs and says, "I guess."

"And Rick?"

Slowly, the archer turns, giving Shane a narrow eyed look, and gruffly asks, "What's Rick got to do with my brother?"

"Nothing," Shane responds shaking his head. "Thought I saw him having lunch with you today. You two friends now?"

Daryl huffs, curling his hands into fists. "That ain't any of your business. You lost the right the moment you fucked his wife."

Shane takes a step towards the archer, but forces himself to stop, rubbing the back of his head. He sniffs, clenching his jaw, and snarls, "Don't point that thing at anyone." He then stalks away, heading back towards the road, his shoulders tense, his footsteps stilted, and Daryl waits until he hears the cop's vehicle drive away before climbing up after him.

Daryl doesn't even know  _why_ he's meddling into Rick's life. The cop didn't  _need_ his help, didn't ask for his help, and probably wouldn't appreciate the archer sticking his nose in his business, but, like with Carol, Daryl has this overwhelming urge to protect Rick. He can't explain it, just like he couldn't explain it in Atlanta, and no matter how hard he tries to ignore it, the worse the urge gets until he finds himself standing over a man in the middle of a heart attack, not doing a damn thing to save his life.

He lights a cigarette, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. He doesn't feel guilty about the fact that he watched Carol's husband die, the piece of shit deserved more than a bad heart, but he doesn't know how Rick will react if he ever told the cop. He hasn't had a lot of friends in his life, and he'd very much like to keep the ones he has got for as long as they want him around, and if that means never telling Rick about Ed then that's exactly what Daryl will do.

* * *

Later that night, while Rick is eating cold spaghetti rings from the can, someone knocks on the cop's door. His head shoots up, his eyes resting on the door, watching it curiously. He doesn't move until there's a second knock, setting his dinner on the counter so he can answer it, taking a step back when he finds Daryl standing on the other side, holding a case of beer.

"Michonne told me where ya live," the archer explains holding the beer up. "Figured I should apologize for earlier."

"It's fine," Rick reassures Daryl, gesturing for him to come inside. He closes the door behind the archer, leaning against it. "It's not like you're wrong."

"I ain't got no right, meddling in your life," Daryl argues turning to face the cop.

"What brand of beer did ya get?" Rick asks, needing to change the subject, and Daryl looks down at the case in his hand.

"Uh, PBR," the archer answers glancing up again. "Wasn't sure what kind you liked."

"It's fine." Rick pushes away from the door, heading towards his kitchenette, very much aware of the footsteps behind him. He grabs his spaghetti rings, holding the can up, and says, "There's more in the cabinet; if you want some."

"You know how to make a guy feel fancy, Grimes," Daryl jokes but still sets the beer down and grabs a can from the cabinet Rick indicated. He pops the top off, tossing it onto the counter, and looks as if he might actually start digging in with his fingers had Rick not offered him a spoon. "Thanks."

They lean against the same counter, their shoulders touching, neither one saying a word, but it's the most relaxed Rick has felt in this apartment since moving in, and he can't say that he hates the feeling.

**Author's Note:**

> See y'all in the next chapter...


End file.
